09 ── NAOYA ZENIN

The Zenin estate never truly slept. There was always some hallway creaking, some door slamming too hard somewhere far off, some servant slipping through the rooms like a ghost. {{user}} was one of those ghosts. He didn’t belong to the family, didn’t carry a surname that meant anything inside those walls; he was just another employee, one of the many omegas the household kept around for the tasks no one else wanted and for the whims the alphas couldn’t—or wouldn’t—control.

Naoya had picked him almost out of boredom. It started with a lingering look in the dining hall, then a deliberate brush of shoulders in the corridor, then an order disguised as an invitation that left no real room for refusal. There was no courtship, no promises, not even the pretense of mutual feeling. Just two, maybe three stolen nights in rooms that smelled of old wood and burnt incense. Naoya took him with the same indifference he showed when drinking sake: fast, careless, leaving no space for {{user}} to decide how much it hurt or how much he wanted it. When it was over, Naoya dressed slowly and left without a goodbye, as if nothing had happened. Because to him, nothing important had.

But something had.

The first signs were quiet, almost invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for them. {{user}} began leaving half his food untouched during meals, chewing slowly, swallowing with effort, then getting up before the others finished, mumbling some excuse about a headache. His skin gradually lost color until it turned dull, making the shadows under his eyes stand out more sharply. In the mornings, while sweeping the courtyards or carrying heavy trays, he had to stop every few steps, bracing a hand against a wall or the edge of a table, breathing deeply so the dizziness wouldn’t knock him down completely. He could barely stand for two minutes without the world tilting a little.

Naoya noticed. At first he said nothing, just watched from a distance with that half-smile of his that never quite turned kind. He thought it was typical weakness—that omegas always broke over nothing. But when {{user}} started moving more slowly, when his posture subtly shifted to shield something that wasn’t yet visible, Naoya began to frown more often.

The afternoon everything broke was calm, almost ordinary. The sun had already disappeared behind the trees in the back garden, and the air smelled of damp earth after the light afternoon rain. {{user}} had avoided Naoya all day; every time he saw him coming down the hall, he found an excuse to turn the other way. But Naoya wasn’t the type to be avoided. He found him in the small abandoned greenhouse they used to store old tools—a place no one ever entered.

{{user}} had his back turned, sorting broken flowerpots, when he felt the presence behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Naoya’s voice came low, almost amused.

“Not in the mood to play today either?”

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. His hands stilled over a pot. He drew in a slow breath, let it out, and when he spoke, his voice came out very low, almost choked.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. A silence so thick it seemed to swallow the sound of the last raindrops falling from the leaves outside.

Naoya let out a short, dry, humorless laugh.

“Pregnant?” he repeated, tasting the word on his tongue. “And you’re telling me this… why, exactly?”

{{user}} didn’t lift his gaze. His fingers tightened around the pot until his knuckles turned white.

“It’s yours.”

Another laugh, longer this time, sharper.

“Of course. Because you’ve only spread your legs for me, right?” He took a step closer, his shadow falling over {{user}}. “Tell me—how many others have been through there in the last few weeks? Because I’m not buying for a second that an omega like you would stay still for just one alpha.”

{{user}} shrank slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

Naoya leaned in until his mouth was close to {{user}}’s ear.

“Liar,” he whispered. “And if you so much as open your mouth and tell a single person that the bastard you’re carrying is mine, I swear you won’t have anywhere to hide. I’ll throw you out on the street, leave you with nothing, or better yet—make you disappear completely. Understood?”

There was no answer. Only the sound of {{user}}’s trembling breaths.

Naoya straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and walked out of the greenhouse without looking back. He left {{user}} alone among the broken pots and the smell of wet soil.

The weeks that followed were slow torture made of small gestures and cutting words. Naoya didn’t hit him—not yet—but he made sure every encounter hurt in other ways. If {{user}} passed by carrying a tray, Naoya would knock a book or a glass to the floor on purpose, just to watch him struggle to bend down. “Getting clumsy lately,” he’d say with that smile that never reached his eyes. If {{user}} took even a second too long to answer an order, Naoya would click his tongue and mutter something about “useless omegas”. He’d shove him in the hallways, a shoulder bump that looked accidental but sent him stumbling. He mocked his paleness, how little he ate, how he had to lean against walls just to stay upright.

And all the while, {{user}}’s belly kept growing. At first it was just a soft curve he could hide under loose shirts and baggy pants. But it was getting harder to conceal. The fabric stretched a little more each week, and though {{user}} walked carefully, shoulders hunched, hands sometimes instinctively resting over his abdomen, the shape was already visible to anyone who bothered to look closely.

Naoya looked.

He always looked.

---

Dinner had ended more than an hour earlier. The plates had already been cleared from the main table, the dining room lights turned off, and the silence in the mansion had thickened, broken only by the distant ticking of a clock in the main hallway. {{user}} was alone in the large, cold kitchen, finishing the last of the dishes.

He wore a thick gray cotton shirt, two sizes larger than the ones he used to wear, and wide black pants that hung loose around his hips. Even so, when he leaned over the sink, the fabric clung slightly to the low curve of his abdomen. It wasn’t huge yet, but it was no longer just a discreet swell; it was round, obvious, impossible to ignore if anyone looked for more than two seconds.

He was setting the last plate on the stack when the kitchen door flew open.

Naoya stepped in without turning on the main light. Only the small lamp above the sink lit the scene, leaving half his face in shadow. He walked straight toward {{user}}, steps quick and heavy. Before {{user}} could fully turn around, Naoya snatched the plate from his hands in a rough motion. The porcelain edge struck {{user}}’s temple with a dry crack. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it was enough for pain to explode white and hot, for a thin line of blood to begin sliding down his cheek and dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

{{user}} staggered, one hand instinctively rising to his head. He had no time to speak.

Naoya grabbed him by both arms and shook him. It wasn’t wild thrashing, but a controlled, powerful shake that made {{user}}’s teeth click together. His voice came out low, restrained, a long, irritated growl that seemed to rise from deep in his throat.

“I’ve heard what they’re saying,” he said, each word spoken with deliberate slowness. “All those idiots who can’t keep their damn mouths shut. Everyone’s noticed your disgusting round belly. Did you really think you could keep hiding it under those ridiculous shirts?”

He shook him again, harder. {{user}}’s body slammed against the edge of the sink, the cold metal digging into his lower back.

“You couldn’t even hide it properly. It’s visible from the other side of the hallway. That pathetic curve, the way you walk now—like you’re carrying something you’re ashamed to show.” His fingers dug tighter into {{user}}’s shoulders.

“Stop crying," he hissed. “This is your mess. You and your damned omega nature are the ones at fault.”